


except this was Sherlock

by GrumpiestCat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 16:44:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9132691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrumpiestCat/pseuds/GrumpiestCat
Summary: Except this was Sherlock, who still didn’t get the point of saying ‘I love you’ more than once.  "It’s not as if anything has changed since the first time I said it," he had snapped when John had expressed frustration over it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holiday fic for @johnwatson221bs on Twitter; hopefully it is fluffy enough!

He wasn’t going to bother with Valentine’s Day.  It was a stupid commercial holiday, and if he did anything special, Sherlock would just call him an idiot.

 

Except this was Sherlock’s first relationship, and yes, it was a stupid commercial holiday, but that didn’t mean that couples couldn’t make romantic plans.  Some of his fondest memories from previous relationships involved Valentine’s Day dinners or Christmas Day outings.  The holidays gave him an excuse to go a little overboard or splurge on something special.

 

Except this was _Sherlock_ , who still didn’t get the point of saying ‘I love you’ more than once.  _It’s not as if anything has changed since the first time I said it,_ he had snapped when John had expressed frustration over it.  John still wasn’t sure if it was actually annoyance at repetition or something else – fear of seeming silly, sentimental, or perhaps even fear that one day John would be the one who would fail to reciprocate the phrase.  Surely, he would think a Valentine’s Day celebration would be ridiculous.

 

Except this was _Sherlock_ , and John still remembers the first year he bought the man a birthday present and Sherlock seemed utterly baffled that anyone – even John – would give him a gift.  He had scoffed at it, mocked its usefulness, but when John’s birthday rolled around, there was a carefully wrapped, very useful, terribly thoughtful present sitting on the kitchen table.  (Well, technically, three days before his birthday, but they had been chasing a serial rapist that week, so Sherlock could be easily forgiven for botching the date.)  Maybe Sherlock was expecting something.

 

Except this was _Sherlock,_ who had once gone off on a fifteen minute rant about how greeting card companies were the only ones greedier and more unethical than pharmaceutical companies, because whereas people actually do need medications to be healthy, absolutely nobody actually needs an expensive card with a cat wearing a party hat on it, attached to an overpriced box of sweets or a bouquet of flowers that will soon die because they were decapitated.  The speech might have been for the benefit of their suspect, but John had no doubt Sherlock believed at least some of it.  If John showed up with chocolates or roses, he’d probably just be treated to another fifteen minute spiel. 

 

Except this was _Sherlock,_ who was clearly more than a little skittish about the whole thing, worried that he was going to do or say the wrong thing and John would storm out the door and leave him.  The man who still asked if this was _what people do_ and expressed frustration if a social situation popped up and he wasn’t sure how he was expected to behave.  The man who lay stiff and anxious in bed after their first time (second, if you counted the couch), unsure if John would want him to stay or expect him to leave.  The man who looked to John for guidance while still pretending as if he was completely in control.

 

Except this was _Sherlock_ , who grumbled about the Christmas decorations, who had looked at him like he lost his mind the time when John jokingly suggested they celebrate America’s Independence Day by decorating the flat.  ( _Have you seen what’s going on over there?  We should be glad they’re gone._ )  The man who had ranted about the waste of money and complained that the tree wasn’t artificial and would just have to be replaced every year.

 

Except this was _Sherlock_ , who had clearly been looking at wedding rings when that case took them to the jeweler’s last week.

 

He still had time.  Sherlock was going to be with Greg for at least a couple more hours.  John climbed the steps to their flat, wondering where would be the best place to shop.  Everything would be ridiculously expensive, but after that last case, they could afford to splurge a little.  He could get something that would be permanent, that would be useful, that –

 

He opened the door and stopped in his tracks.  Sherlock stood in that black suit, with that purple shirt, with his hair beautifully tussled, looking both irritated and anxious as he stood with a dozen red roses.  John could smell his favorite Chinese; the food was put out on the table next to an empty vase.  Presumably where Sherlock intended to put the flowers.

 

“This is idiotic,” were the first words out of Sherlock’s mouth.  “These are going to die in a few days no matter what we do.  We can eat this food anytime.  We had sex last night.  Now it’s all supposed to be special because of a date on a calendar, picked by a company to leech money off the sentimental?”

 

John stepped closer, taking the flowers out of Sherlock’s hand and gently placing them on the table.

 

“The vase –”

 

John cut him off by reaching up, sliding his fingers into Sherlock’s soft hair, pulling him down for a kiss.  Sherlock stood stiffly for a moment, relaxing only when John’s other hand wrapped around his waist.

 

“It’s special because it’s you, idiot,” John whispered against his lips.

 

“I could do this any day.”

 

“But you don’t.  And I don’t expect you to.”

 

“Then I don’t understand,” Sherlock grumbled, a flush rising in his cheeks at the admission.

 

“Stop analyzing.”

 

He frowned, as if John had just told him to stop breathing, and perhaps it was pretty much the same thing.  John’s desire for him battled with his physical hunger, and it was only when his stomach growled that he made his decision.  He took Sherlock’s hand – something he never tolerates in public but seems to enjoy in private – and guided him to the table.  They sat but John didn’t let go of his hand.  He squeezed it gently.

 

“Thank you.”

 

Sherlock scoffed, mumbled something about the food getting cold, but John could see him biting his lip at the end to stifle a smile.

 

(fin.)


End file.
